It was April 5th, my son’s 5th birthday, and I’d spent all morning with him opening presents and spoiling him rotten. Then came the evening, and a party.
Although this was no party for my son, this was an event that Erik Bruce and I went and got completely destroyed at the XOYO club in London. And what a night it was… I’d just dropped my boy, Bam, home, and was sat around at my place getting impatient and waiting for Erik to come pick me up.
However, impatience and I don’t get on at all, so I did what I do best – I got on it. Beer and bag flowed, and by the time Erik arrived I was practically dancing around my front room to one of Erik’s own mixes (as linked above, and which you should be listening to now!)
Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews
We hit the train to Waterloo, getting more and more tanked, and talking to Erik about music is like talking to me about being an idiot – it’s something we’re both experts on. I could grill the man over music and mixes for hours, and his knowledge of all things musical is something to behold. By the time we get to Waterloo, Scott Andrews - an ‘old’ friend from my days in Norwich – is already in the (infamous from lots of my other blogs) Wellesley pub.
Beers and talk flow, and again I’m being baffled by the musical knowledge of my peers. Still, the company is good, and Scott is a very articulate and passionate talker when it comes to music; and combined with Erik’s vast knowledge I’m drowning in a sea of musical bliss. And beer.
It’s time to go, and I suddenly realise that drinking/etc for the last six hours has left me three sheets to the wind, so I allow the guys to take point and follow them in a style akin to a slalom skier; desperately trying to keep his zig-zagging as organised as possible.
We get to a restaurant (I forget it’s name) where we sit down to eat. I say ‘eat’, but I’m rattling like an illegal doctor’s prescription-pill box, so I order a vodka. Yeah, that will sober me up. Erik and Scott order food. Scott eats. Erik looks at his food, and then looks at me with a face that asks; ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ The moment is made even more poignant when a waitress picks up a rolled-up £5 by Erik’s foot and waves it under his nose (ironically).
Now, this is where shit gets hazy for Jode. I remember drinking more with Scott and Erik, before Robin Thurston (another fine DJ) turned up. We had some photos taken, and I was then accosted by a bald Asian man, who proclaimed himself to be my ethnic twin.
It was all good fun, and we met several more people in here who we would then bump into while in XOYO. The place is pretty big, and the state that Erik and I are in (full of Mandy-liscious goodness and beanos) means we’re straight on the dance floor, and busting out shapes like we’re Diversity on crack. Actually, the state I’m in involves me stumbling around a lot with Erik constantly nudging me this way and that, trying to keep me upright and out of other people’s way… but at least I’m having fun.
Suddenly, the nudging and guiding stops, and I’m at risk of losing myself in a sea of strangers. In the mess I’m in, this would not be good. I realise that I need to maintain a maximum distance of two metres away from Erik, simply to ensure my safe return home to Mama Ruth. However, I hadn’t counted on Nick Muir turning up – John Digweed‘s partner in Bedrock. He stole Erik from me like candy from a drug-induced baby, and the two of them were locked deep in conversation with Scotty. I did what I do best. I staggered, made an idiot of myself, and took pictures.
Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.
Releasing Nick Muir from his grasps, Erik and I started cutting some rug again. The night flies by; I vaguely remember meeting a guy called George Barnes (very friendly, and turns out we have a common friend in Brighton of all places!), and then I was introduced to Claire Yarranton and her boyfriend/husband/partner/I-forget-which – who also turn out to have multiple friends with myself and Erik. I’m introducing you to all the above people as I have a feeling they’ll all be turning up in future blogs; especially as we all seem destined for the Ministry Of Sound on May 26th for Sasha. If you fancy it yourselves, then simply let me know. It will be biblical.
Digweed keeps rolling, and the sounds are phenomenal; bringing me down from my cloud but keeping me euphoric. He plays until time, the last three tracks he plays batter us with his unique sound… and we love him for it; soaking up the beats and the vibes as the room of people bop and dance as one.
This is the shit that I live for. Some people think that I go to these events to pull women, and rubbish like that. If I wanted to, I could pick up my phone, call some girl up, and do it without all the hassle and fun of a night out in London.
Guys like me… people like us, we look at our calendars and count the days until the next musical event is on that we can plan our lives around. I/we might be smashed, but even in our states the music moves us, flows through us. Cliches or not, it’s true.
We live for the music.
Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.
I can honestly say that I spend most of my waking day listening to music. I was once a massive film buff – a movie nerd – but now, as a writer, it’s no longer films that play on in the background of my life. It’s always music. Mostly mixes.
But I digress. The music finishes, the lights go on, and Erik has since informed me that we stood in line for the cloakroom for three-quarters of an hour. I remember hardly anything, except for Claire talking to me. About something. I think.
Goodbyes all round, and apologies to Robin, who I have been really horrible to. I think I did it in jest, and he’s still speaking to me. Plus he’s invited me to a boat party on the Thames before the aforementioned Sasha gig next month, so I figure he’s forgiven me. Or he’s gonna push me off the fucking boat. Either way, it will be another good story to tell.
Erik then makes me walk for miles and miles and miles. We try hailing a cab, but they are all busy. Erik has since informed me that the Bedrock forums told him that no taxis turned up for a very, very long time.
So we were right to walk. However, I stub my toe, walking in a straight line (!) as we march, and it hurts like hell. Erik tells me to man up, and I limp on. I’ll post a picture of the toe that led to epic Facebook statuses at the end of this blog.
We hit Waterloo again, thanking whoever it is watching over us (Saint Marx, Patron Lord of Drug Fiends?) that the train is almost in. Now this is where I pretty much lose my mind. We fall asleep in our seats, before I roll off, laying in the middle of the floor on the 8am train during rush hour. I was completely unconscious, and Lord Marx knows how many people must have stepped over me. Or avoided our carriage completely.
In the end a woman conductor wakes me and makes me move. So I skip the seats again and lie against the wall. On the heater. And burn myself. Erik wakes me in Portsmouth, and as we leave the train, asks me if maybe I should put my other trainer back on.
I’d taken it off because of my bad toe.
Wanna see it?
And try on a little mix from Scott Andrews while you’re surfing the net afterwards. I was going to throw a Robin Thurston mix in, but it looks like he’ll be the main feature of the forthcoming Sasha blog, so I’ll get him to make me a special mix just for that one!
I’m sat here trying to desperately remember what happened just over 24 hours ago and I’m struggling. New Years was a mess for myself and Becki Beavis. I would ask her to fill in the blanks but she was as much of a state as I was. Let me unscramble my brain cells and see what I can do about it…
It all started at 5pm New Years Eve after I’d dropped Bam home and cracked open the vodka back at mine… *cue hazy flashback scene*
If you’ve read my blogs then you’ll know that my journeys always start boat, train, underground when we hit London and this time was no different. However, I managed to spice the journey up a little this time by receiving a challenge from Darren Boynton and Erik Bruce. The dipshits challenged me to write ‘Happy New Year Darren Boynton (and Erik Bruce)’ on a piece of paper and get my photo taken with a policeman. I thought I’d shake things up slightly, and get photos with everyone. Here’s the first: Hitting Waterloo Station in London was surreal. Everytime I have ever been here it’s been rammed full of people going to work, and while there were still many people here, there were no where near the numbers to which I was used to.
Hitting the Wellesley as is our tradition when we hit London, we’d got our drinks and sat down for 30 seconds before the lady sitting next to me asked me to look after her bags and coat. I shrugged and said ‘sure’. Well, she didn’t look like a Muslim extremist so I figured we were safe. She returned and I went to the loo.
While I managed to ‘bag’ one cubicle THREE lads went into the one next to me. I’m sure it was so they could carry on their discussion about local politics, but there was a lot of giggling and nose-blowing while they were in there. I came out of my cubicle and was stunned to see the place full of men waiting to use the facilities. I cleared my throat loudly and gave it a real panto-cry of ‘boy, there sure are a lot of people in here now‘, trying to give the cubicle kids a heads up. One of them then called out, in a posh old ladies voice; “Er… I’m awfully sorry but I’ve run out of tissue paper! Could you please all fuck off and find me some?”
I was laughing as I left. Not sure about the others though.
Drinks drunk, tube taken and we’re in the Barbican area of London, heading for Fabric. The area seemed pretty sparse so I asked a nearby doorman if there was anywhere nearby where we could get a drink, ie, down the stairs into the club/bar behind him. He pointed at a pub behind me that had more lights gleaming than a Christmas tree. I’ve no idea how I missed it! Drinks drunk, again, and I went back to the doorman for… If you read the ‘legendary’ blog that was Fear and Loathing In Los London you’ll recall that I got searched by a man on the door of Fabric who found what he was looking for down my shorts.
No, not my cock.
This time we came prepared. We did our drugs in a phone box before we went in and then stuffed the rest in Becki’s phone case and down her bra. It ain’t pretty, but it’s effective. Alas, it also proved a touch too sweaty when we tried to perk up later that night…
I got such a half-arsed searching at the door I felt offended and almost went looking for my tormentor from last time, but we were in and that was all that mattered. Now, I don’t
Room Two
know about anyone else, but we got lost in Fabric last time… and we got lost in Fabric this time. I had to ask a fucking steward where Room Two was… …as this was where the man I had come to see was playing. Alan Fitzpatrick. He started at 9pm and we got there roughly twenty minutes afterwards, and as we entered he was dropping Adam Beyer’s ‘Twist’ track, which I love love love. I thought it would make a good first video so I started filming it… which resulted in an impromptu dance-off between two lads:
Being early it wasn’t quite full up, which gave us the freedom of the dance floor. We spent pretty much the next 11 hours here just tearing the place up. More and more people flocked to the room and soon we were rammed in the corner right under the DJ booth, as Fitzpatrick played a set so formidable the room was soon packed and the crowd were yelling and cheering at every drop. The man has come so far in the last year its phenomenal.
A steward called ‘Rich’ was stationed at the bottom of the stairs between us and Alan Fitzpatrick and I can’t remember how or why but me and Beavis kept plying him with vodka for the rest of the night and got him pissed! In fact, so pissed I managed to squeeze this in: After a while, Beavis thought it would be funny to tell Rich that I was friends with Alan Fitzpatrick. Rich then asked me; “Do you want me to go and tell him you’re here?” Now me, being three sheets to the wind, agreed. Rich ran up the stairs, asked, Fitzpatrick refused (saying he’d only ever spoke to me online) so I did what I do best. I carried on being smashed out of my face and danced.
Fag break and we ventured outside. Now, I told you things were hazy, and I can’t remember who, but someone sold me a couple of pills. £10 a pop these bad boys, and they were better than the shit back home on the Isle of Wight. It took a good half hour to come up but soon we were back in Room Two throwing shapes as AF played on. His set was fantastic, and he cemented himself as my favourite DJ around. Once he’d finished his set I accosted him and apologised for drunkenly trying to visit him in the booth but he was cool. I think. I was space-monkeyed, remember.
I also then got a photo of him and reminded him that he’d promised me an MP3 of his SW4 set back in August!
Our dancers-in-crime for the rest of the night we’re two lads and they’re girlfriends… I think. The two guys were very friendly and chatted away with us the whole time. Then I mentioned I’d been to SW4 and one of them shouted: “I knew I knew you from somewhere!” he shouted and gave me a big hug. He then spoke to the other friend and he was soon laughing and hugging me and patting me on the back. I swear I had never seem these guys before in my life, so I did what amused me most… and went along with them.
We carried on partying, the pills doing their job, but they seemed to bring us down a lot quicker than we expected. Fitzpatrick had finished his set, so while Slam was just taking over we ventured back out to the smoking area, or ‘Drug Central’ as it shall now forever be known. I’m not sure if it was because we were running out of drugs, or if everyone just wanted to do my head in, but Drug Central was really fucking with me. Firstly Beavis decided that the hedge behind me was the biggest thing in the world she’d ever seen and kept trying to get me to look. Ok, it might not sound like it was funny, but the severe state I was in and the fact that every drug-riddled ape that walked past and heard our conversation decided to stare at the bastard shrubbery as well. But I would not turn. I didn’t at all for the rest of the night.
Suddenly, after spending the last 7 hours on a solid intake of vodka, I desperately needed water. And I mean fucking needed water more than I ever have in my life. I started asking random people but they all had the tiniest dribble in their bottles or countered my offer by asking me for drugs! Apparently I have ‘one of those faces’. Seriously. I get asked all the damn time. We befriended an Irishman and his girlfriend. I say ‘befriended’ but he was an absolute cunt to me, although we solidly agreed on the fact that everyone hates the English. I pushed this a touch further and mentioned that I find the Welsh to be the biggest racists on the planet (it’s true, suck it up) and I paused after saying it and asked Irish’s girlfriend if she was Welsh. His very pretty, very black girlfriend responded ‘do I look like I’m fuckin’ Welsh?’ in the same Laaandan accent that she’d been talking to me in for the last ten minutes. Told you I was struggling. Irish said goodbye, shook my hand, called me a cunt and disappeared into the night. thus the hunt was back on.
It was now at the stage where I stood in the middle of Drug Central and starting asking in a loud voice:
“People, look at me! Don’t I look desperate enough for some drugs?”
Beavis then shut me up. It was probably a good idea as the doormen were removing various people being sick around us, and I had PRIME CANDIDATE written all over me.
Still…
A small, thin, shaking Ukranian/Russian/whatever shuffled on over to me and said
What a night...
‘drrrugzz’ in his eastern European lilt; although, to be fair, the state I was in he was probably English and my brain translator was on the fritz.
I nodded and I recall telling him that I loved him and that he was a lovely man.
And then he started taking off his belt.
It’s not an uncommon thing to happen around me, and if you check out my last blog I actually made this move myself… again in Fabric…
The foreigner took his belt off and held it towards me.
“Oh man,” I said, “Look, I wanted drugs, not cock… no matter how desperate I look…”
But then he revealed the back of his belt, and snapped it open like an old Kit Kat. The interior leather of the belt split open and revealed HUNDREDS of orange pills, all nestled in a poly lining. It was fucking genius and something that Beavis and I talked about often throughout the night!
At least when I was able to talk, cos those little orange pills fuuuucked us up. You’ve heard the conversations where people bemoan that pills were ‘so much better back in the day’? Well, this pills should’ve been called ‘Back In The Day’ pills. They were fucking immense and one little beano each took us to the fucking moon and back. I didn’t think I was overly bad, but Beavis took some photos of me that shocked even myself!
Oh, and in case you were wondering, these pills pissed all over the MDMA in our last excursion.
Back on the dance floor and we’re back in the groove until one massive wave of pill-power wipes me out in one crushing move; and then I suddenly become that which I had always ridiculed – a dirty little pill head who can barely breathe let alone open my eyes. At one point Beavis and I were both in heavy conversation… with the wall right in front of us.
Luckily I’ve managed to gather my marbles back into their sack by the time Adam Beyer hits the decks around half 3, and his set is tremendous. The battery on my iPhone had died and I will always, ALWAYS regret not filming him playing a dirty, dark version of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. I remember stopping dancing once I realised what it was… and once I realised just how good it was… and I can still hear it ringing in my ears now. It was an amazing moment in an amazing night.
If anyone reading this can tell me what it’s called or where I can find it will love you forever. [step forward Shadey Collins and Dean Foster (the latter my dance partner in Fabric!)!! Here's a snippet:
Fabric was open 9pm till 9am, and we left just after 8am and caught a taxi to Waterloo with our last £20. While sat in the train station I discovered a craving for a strawberry milkshake that was almost as bad as my earlier want of water.
It took my five minutes to get out my seat, three minutes to find the MacDonalds’ downstairs, and another 1 minute to get into an argument and be asked to leave. Apparently they don’t do milkshakes in Maccy D’s at that time of the morning, to which I replied loudly:
“Look, you can clearly see that I’m off my face and really need a fucking milkshake!”
WARNING: MAY CONTAIN ALCOHOL, DRUGS, AND FUCKED-UP GURNING FACES.
It all started with this track:
And it all ended with us being unconscious on a broken down train.
In August this year, DJC-Kay and I went to the SW4 Festival so that I could finally get to see my favourite DJ, Sasha. We came, we saw, we conquered. I got home and listened to some of Sasha’s mixes and came across the Kalkbrenner remix of the track I’ve linked above. I fell in love with it, found a Kalkbrenner Essential Mix and decided there and then that I needed to check this guy out.
A quick google search revealed he would be playing at the Koko club in Camden, London, so I bought some tickets and then asked if anyone in the wonderful land of Facebook wanted to accompany me.
November 13th arrived, and we hit the boat to the mainland at 8.47, and I was on the vodka and pharmaceuticals by 8.48, and in Portsmouth boat terminal at 9.15 topping up our coke bottles with vodka. I know how to treat my ladies.
Our train rolled into Waterloo just after 11am, and we were due to meet Stretch’s sister – Kerry Heverin – at Victoria Station.
But first I had to take care of something. You may remember in past blogs that I could never remember the name of the pub that you have to go downstairs to, based in Waterloo station. Well, now I know.
The Wellesley. I made Stretch and Becki come in there for a drink with me just to find out its name! And – as we walked in – a guy came running up the stairs, bumped into us, shouted “DRINK!” and then promptly walked himself down a dead end.
He was easily one of the least weird people we’d meet this weekend.
Victoria Station was our next destination where we finally met Kerry. We were half-cut, she was like a hungover, hyperactive Leprechaun, and Bex and I stood back and let them jump up and down and shriek in their Northern Oirish accents. I think only dogs could hear them.
The Shakespeare was the nearest pub to where we stood, so, by default, was where we headed. Finding a table, the four of us sat around allowing Kerry and I to get acquainted. I say ‘acquainted’, but she spent most of the time saying things like; “Jody Jody Jody… you are really bald, aren’t ye?”. It also took her under two hours of meeting me to call me a ‘cunt’.
I decided to escape for a cigarette, and slipped outside. Where Kerry found me and continued her incessant talk AT me. I was saved by a drunken old man staggering down the road, who came straight up to us and introduced himself as “Harry Kewell Fuckwit-Cuntington.”
Seriously.
This is when I discovered Kerry and I have the same sense of humour… as we both invited him in for a drink with us.
Harry Kewell Fuckwit-Cuntington
Harry sat down with us, and informed us that he’d just been kicked out from next door. We laughed, and were about to order him a drink when the above average looking barmaid (I was almost fully steaming by now) trotted over and told him he had to leave.
Apparently, when he said he had been ‘kicked out of next door’, he meant he had been kicked out of the NEXT door of this very same pub.
Harry was amusing, and brightened an already funny day up, and as he went to leave, he leant over to kiss Becki… and his teeth fell out of his fucking mouth.
It didn’t end there. i had to escort him to the door, and then hold his hand as he took an almighty jump from the step outside to the pavement below.
It must have been a jump of all two inches high.
With Harry gone, we stood outside mourning his departure, fags in hand… when suddenly a
Goldie.
man all in gold turned up and cheered us up. Kerry talked at him a lot, we had photos taken with him, and then he left quickly. I’d like to think his name was Goldie…
Next stop is Kings Cross, where we hadn’t booked ourselves a hotel. This is where I made my first schoolboy error. I’d forgot my fucking bank cards. I was wedged up with notes, but the Travelodge only took cards… via online booking… and tried as I might I could not get the girl on reception to take my damn money.
Luckily Kerry had her card. I gave her the cash, and – after a stupidly long time of trying to use the two computers in reception – Kerry finally booked the room over the receptionists phone. Yes, it was as much arse ache as it sounded.
We dumped our gear, and hit the vodka bottles we just bought, boozing it up in true pikey style to get ready for Koko and Kalkbrenner. The receptionist ordered us a taxi (the first useful thing she’d done) and just before it arrived we bombed the MDMA that we’d stashed with us.
I don’t do a lot of MD, only on special occasions, and this was the second time this year; the first being SW4. Becki was nervous about it, as she apparently becomes a ‘complete nuisance’, but Stretch was easy about it, and I was just out for a good fucking time.
And not many people can do it better than me, if I do say so myself.
The queue for Koko wasn’t too bad, and the stream of people actually ended right at the door to a pub. We decided to join the queue by sitting inside for a drink. Vodkas all round, and Kerry stated that she had to wait for her friend… Darren, I think his name was… but I knew that any second the MDMA would rip me a new one, so I said that I had to get in Koko before they had to peel me off the ceiling of the pub.
Becki came with me as we left our Irish friends awaiting Darren, and our ‘adventures’ continued in the queue outside. As we stood in the quickly moving queue, a ‘propa Landan geeza’ leaned over the railing next to me and started spewing swear words at such a rate that even I struggled to figure out what he was saying.
Suddenly I realised that he was spitting venom at the couple behind me, and once he’d finished berating them and left, I had to ask them what the hell had happened. They told us that the ‘geeza’ had offered them tickets while they were already stood in the queue. The guy – who was German – said no, and ‘geeza’ blew up.
Although thinking about it, the other guy was German. Maybe that was enough cause for abuse.
Inside, we grab our drinks as a female DJ plays tunes that already has the several hundred
Kalkbrenner and Grigoriu
in there bouncing happily is playing some big, Euro tunes. We join in, and then turn around to find the German guy and his girlfriend dancing along with us. The German guy informs us that the lady DJ is Paul Kalkbrenner’s girlfriend, Simina Grigoriu, the Romanian Bombshell.
We chat and dance, and I ask German Guy whereabouts in Germany he’s from. He tells me a place name that sounds like Luftwaffe, but obviously isn’t, before I turn to his pretty little blonde girlfriend and say slowly to her:
“AND WHERE ARE YOU FROM?”
Her reply?
“Leicester.”
Leicester Girl, German Guy, and Isle of Wight Idiot.
Meanwhile, back in the pub next door… and the MDMA has gripped hold of Stretch tightly by her throat. And then released it. What happened next wasn’t pleasant.
Although me to tell it to you as her sister Kerry told it to me. While reading this, speak it aloud, and in a Northern Irish accent. It will help colour the situation.
“So then, Jo-dee, lemme tell ye wa’ happen’d. There was oi, sittin’ there all pretty loike, when Stretch ‘ere suddenly started makin’ faces loike a choo-choo train. ‘Er cheeks kept blowin’ out and oi suddenly realised that she was gonna boke! [*translation: boke means to vomit] Oi was a little fookin’ worried, Jod-ee, bu’ Stretch managed to get ‘erself to de bathroom. Unfortunately, she barged into me on ‘er way, and oi dropped me fookin’ phone, and smashed de fooker!”
Here, Stretch takes over the story:
“Fook me, oi jus’ about got de toilet door open before I sprayed it everywhere! It were loike water from a high pressure ‘ose! I pasted dat fookin’ toilet. Oi feel sorry for de next person dat went in dere…”
Back inside Koko while Stretch was redecorating the pub, Becki and I were dancing. And dancing badly. The MD had gripped us strong, and our dance moves involved a lot of holding onto each other, bumping into other people, and saying various things like; “Imma
Kalkbrenner's Number One fan in Kalkbrenner t-shirt... and his other hand is cupping my arse. Seriously.
fuuuucked…”; “Where did we park the spaceship?”; “Please call my mum…” and the usual shit.
Luckily, the Europeans around us are more forgiving than our English cunterparts, or they were just as spangled, and they danced along with us. At some point I vaguely recall someone holding me up. It was either the German guy or Jesus, or Paul Kalkbrenner’s Number One Fan, but my memory is understandably sketchy over all this.
After a little while, and the manic, amazing rush had been ridden, and we were fully on our way to Wonderland. Kalkbrenner was on set, the light show enthralled us, and the beat of the music held us and wrapped us in its sounds. All around we could see mobile phones and cameras held aloft as everyone seemed to be filming the opening track of Kalkbrenner’s set – one of my favourite tracks of his, “Des Stabes Reuse“. Below is the video. At around the 6.01minute mark you can hear Miss Beavis utter the words “I am off my fucking trolley” as she then cackles like a mad cat woman. I laugh when I hear it even now.
All above us in the balcony rooms people dance, but I can’t get the light in the place to do a photo justice, but believe me when I tell you that the sight is magnificent when you’re absolutely fucking rendered.
We dance and dance, and then I realise that Stretch and Kerry still haven’t joined us, and – as if by magic… or by copious amounts of drugs – they suddenly appear. This is great for me, as Stretch and I hang off of each other for the next two hours of the set. Poifeck.
We’re all together, even the elusive Darren (who I can’t recall at all, so I’m starting to think
The Three Amigos.
that the girls just made him up so that they could fuck with me), and we’re having one of the best nights ever. Paul Kalkbrenner is a European Demi-god, and every track he puts on and every drop he makes has the crowd yelling and cheering. You have to remember that this DJ is bigger than Lady Gaga all over Europe… guess sometimes those foreigners do have better taste in music.
There isn’t much else to tell about Kalkbrenner and Koko, but we all danced the whole time. Apart from when another ‘geeza’ wobbled up to us and offered us “Anyfink yoo fackin’ waaant yoo caaaants”. I can’t remember what I said but he actually went to the bar for something, so Becki grabbed me and said that we’d better get the fuck out of there.
So we did. And ran downstairs to find Stretch.
Who we found talking to the same fackin geeza.
Koko - not Kalkbrenner night but gives you an idea of what it was like.
Our time at Koko was up, but not until we’d heard and seen Kalkbrenner play another two or three encores. We more than got our monies worth, and the man plays an amazing set. I’ll definitely be back to see him again. I’m just glad we managed to catch him on his Icke Wieder tour to promote his new album.
But our night wasn’t even close to being over. We headed back for the Travel Lodge, sunk some more vodka (this time with added Red Bull), and generally sat around suffering as the MD wore off. We were struggling, but Becki had a word with herself, I manned the fuck up, we all pumped ourselves with more drugs than a branch of Boots carries, and by 1.30am we were back in another taxi on our way to Fabric.
The Hallway to Koko
We queued outside – again, not a long queue – and the three girls were called to a separate doorway by a lady bouncer while I stood behind two guys waiting to go in. The man on the door was thoroughly searching them, and I suddenly realised that the wrap of bag stuffed into the waistband of my boxer shorts probably wasn’t as well hidden as I thought it was.
He searched me. He searched me good. He put his hand around my arse (outside my jeans), and then around my shorts (inside my jeans), before he pulled out my wrap and held it up in front of me. I raised and eyebrow and shrugged, and waited for him to say those words that all clubbers dread…
“I think you better come out the back with me.”
But he didn’t. He threw it on a table next to him (probably for his own consumption later… I kinda hope so, as it was good gear) before he went at it AGAIN around my shorts.
“Man, what else you got in there?” he asked as he stepped back.
I had nothing, and told him so. And to prove my point I said; “Here, look,” and started to take my jeans down.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” he yelled, and pushed me INTO the club. “Get the fuck outta my sight!”
I was in; drugless, but in. Kerry, Stretch, and Becki all stood at the top of the stairs looking confused, asking me what happened.
“I’ve been violated by a big black man.” I whimpered.
Fabric
Fabric as a club, is pretty good. The layout might be a little confusing, or that might be the MDMA that still rattled around inside me. The people inside – bear in mind that this is the ONLY night I’ve ever been there – were pretty much idiots. Fop-haired young men, dressed like they’ve been kicked out of the audience of Never Mind The Buzzcocks, and girls who looked barely old enough to be in the place.
Plus everywhere we looked there were people wearing silly and strange hats. I flicked my hood up to join in, and three seconds later had the hand of security on my shoulder telling me to take it down. Becki bought with her a hat with ears and long baubles hanging off of it. I wore this for the next three hours and no one said a fucking word.
Kerry. 'Nuff said.
The night went past in a semi-blur. Becki and I were fueling up on double Red Bull vodkas – with shots a lot bigger than back home, but at a cost of £9.50 each – while Stretch and Kerry drank vanilla vodkas and raspberry vodkas.
We hit the dance floor, as per usual, but the throng of people and idiots that were stumbling around were proving to be a problem, and I didn’t fancy fighting my way to the stage where everyone looked like they were having fun. If I had still been in the throes of Mr MDA then I would have.
Instead, becki and I joined Stretch and Kerry in a dark corner, where I stomped my feet until the end of the night. At one point the girls wondered off for a cigarette, but I stayed put.
As I stood there, stupid hat bouncing, feet stomping, a man around my age stepped up to me, wiggling his hips.
“Hi,” he said, smiling. “Wanna dance?”
“No thanks,” I smiled back. “I’m not gay.”
“Are you sure?”
“What? If I want to dance or if I’m gay?”
“Either.” he replied and strutted away to the dance floor.
He’s probably lucky, because if I was still ruined I would’ve danced with a lamppost. And probably would’ve tried to fuck it.
While Stretch and I were acosted by a right space cadet of a girl who looked like Lisa Loeb, (of “Stay (I Missed You)” ‘fame’)Kerry spent most of the time talking at a guy who was clearly gay. Well, clearly gay to the rest of us but not our Northern Irish friend. It was his bright pink t-shirt, and the throngs of gay men who came past stroking him and high-fiving him that gave it away.
Eventually, the days antics caught up with us… and by ‘us’, I mean Kerry, but she had been on it the day before, and I was starting to struggle myself, so we headed back to our Lodge in Kings Cross.
It wasn’t long before we were all tucked up in bed… for an hour… before we had to leave our hotel rooms. We went to Camden where we sat in a Spoons, blowing out of our arses, and it wasn’t long before I tapped out.
I needed to get home. I needed to get on that train. Stretch stayed with Kerry in Waterloo, at the Wellesley Pub (I know its name now!) and Becki and I hit the train.
Finally we managed to sit in a comfy seat, feet aching, eyes bloodshot, laughing at everything we had done. Exhaustion overcame us and we slipped our headphones in, music pumping softly into our ears as our heads fell together and we drifted off to sleep…
…before the fucking train then broke down before leaving Waterloo and we had to get off of it.
Shit cunts.
Allow me to leave you with this little gem of myself and Becki, that perfectly captures the essence of our weekend, and probably says more in this picture then I just have in over 3,000 words…
I’ve done a lot of exciting things this year, but the build-up to the 2011 South West 4 Festival had got me excited for weeks beforehand. And it didn’t disappoint.
[Disclaimer - this blog is full of swearing, sweat and drug-references. Do not read on if this offends you... actually... if this offends you then you wouldn't read any of my fucking blogs.]
C-Kay and I.
I left the island on the 8.47 catamaran from Ryde Pier after my lovely mum dropped me down there. The train from Portsmouth departed almost straight away and I spent most of the journey Tweeting or messaging my friend, DJC-Kay – a guy who’d supplied me with many, many mixes for my radio show. As thanks, I bought him a ticket for the Sunday of SW4.
Waterloo is where I meet him (ironically passing Clapham Junction which is where SW4 is nearby) and we enter Somerfield to buy some whiskey, where the 29 year old C-Kay gets asked for ID!
No one asked me all fucking weekend.
Quickly into a pub (I forget it’s name, but a mad man with carrier bags sits behind me shouting ‘I’m from Peckham!’ constantly) and we down a couple of drinks before a quick smoke, and then we’re on the tube and heading toward our destination.
We chat the whole way, swapping our favourite tracks while I dig into C-Kay’s past to try and figure out what makes him tick musically (an interview with him will follow in the next few weeks) and we swig whiskey and coke on the train like a couple of alcoholics. Life is good.
We hit Clapham Common and find the festival surrounded by metal fences, huge boardings, and big, burly security guards. These guards would become the bane of my weekend.
I get stopped and searched, and as soon as I pull out my spare boxer shorts adorned in bio-hazard symbols (seriously) the man laughs and sends me through. So, lesson learnt – flash your pants and you’re good to go… something I’ll try to adhere to for the rest of my life.
‘Inside’ the festival we see all the usual Indy Cindy girls and shirtless guys with straw hats and cans of beer, but you can tell there is a string of hardcore dance fans milling around – the kind of guys I grew up with as our musical influences were moulded by guys like Colin Dale, Sasha, DJ SS, John Digweed, et al.
Around us are various big top tents housing different kinds of music. There are the Last FM Arena, We Love Arena, Drumcode Arena and, of course, the main stage. C-Kay and I flit from tent to tent, grabbing vodkas in between, we try and figure out which tent is playing the best music when we come across a crowd that is jumping, beer that is flying, and inflatables that are being smashed into the air by revellers.
The reason – Alan Fitzpatrick. His beats were big and the tent was rocking. This is what we came for.
Alan Fitzpatrick waaaaay in the background behind the decks.
I apologise for being completely unable to tell you which tent and which DJ we saw afterwards, but we bumped into some guys who were throwing Mandy around (those that know will understand the reference) and pretty soon I was more mashed than a pot full of potatoes. Strangely… well, I say strangely, but wherever I go I’m asked if I have any drugs. It’s happened on the high street of my home town, it’s happened to me in other countries. You won’t believe how many fucking times it happened at SW4.
It actually got worse. C-Kay and I were stood on our own in the middle of a mud-patch, in the rain, having a real heart to heart when a small Turkish security guard stepped up and asked C-Kay if I was ‘serving up’ to him! What made it even worse was that I thought he said ‘seven up’… which confused shit even more. This bugged me for ages, as apparently a white guy and a black guy can’t be seen talking together in the middle of a field without it involving drugs. In fairness, I was completely space cadet, but what the fuck?
Back to the music and pretty soon we’re both bouncing around inside different tents, holding each other up, getting muddy and covered in vodka while talking complete bollocks to everyone around us.
It’s a great day. One of the best I’ve had in ages… but it only gets better.
Myself, Dan Formosa and Alastair. Alastair's hat was like a homing beacon for me all day!
But not before C-Kay pulls his Mr Elusiveness’ act. He goes to the loo, I wait outside the toilets… I’m still stood there 20 minutes later. I find him eventually, but this all happens again a couple of hours later. Now, I don’t know what the hell he gets up to, but after I’ve found him we head for the We Love tent to check out the main reason I came to SW4 – Sasha. He’s as good live as I imagined, and soon the pair of us are bouncing, and holding each other up like a pair of alcoholics at a free wine tasting party.
After we’ve seen God for a good long while we head to the main stage where we settle in for a Magnetic Man and Pendulum finale. Neither disappoint and the singalong with Magnetic Man is one of my SW4 highlights.
I first saw Pendulum when they were starting out in a shitty little club on the Isle of Wight called The Balcony. Oh, how they’ve come a long, long way since then…
Before Pendulum start a small group of Aussies and Brits rush up to C-Kay like he’s a long lost friend before asking me if I was his ‘friend that had disappeared’! It turns out C-Kay met these guys while looking for me while I was looking for him!
We stick with Alastair, Dan, Leticia, and Andy and we’re all bouncing like idiots as Pendulum take off. We’re all in a mess, and loving every minute…
Until C-Kay pulls off the mother of all vanishing acts. We lose him completely. I’ve got his wallet and his phone and Andy and I scour the grounds to try and find him, but it’s like… well, it’s like trying to find a black guy in London.
I start to fret, wondering what’s happened to my friend when the Festival finishes and the guys explain to me that I’ve got very little hope of finding C-Kay and that he’ll probably meet us at the Ministry of Sound, as luckily I gave him that ticket and he (hopefully) still had it on him.
“Ok, that’ll work,” I say. “Let’s hit the MOS.”
C-Kay in the blue shirt, Dan Formosa with the shit-eating grin.
“Er… it doesn’t open for another three hours…” Andy tells me.
Shit.
By a massive stroke of luck the gang inform me that their flat is in Clapham and that I’m more than welcome to stay with them until the MOS opens… as they’re all going as well!
So, Jode’s now sat in a strange flat in London with people he doesn’t know, having lost his friend in the middle of Clapham Common, flaked out on a sofa with a bunch of people as monky-ed as himself. Standard night for me, then.
We hit the MOS just after midnight after a taxi ride where the taxi driver doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s up to. That’s the second numbnut taxi driver I’ve encountered today… and I thought they all just worked for us back home!
I get searched on the door of the MOS. Twice. And they take my arthritis tablets off me. Oh, and flashing my underwear doesn’t work at all this time. But, we’re in, and we’re dancing after having paid £9 for a vodka and lemonade, but, when in London…
Richie Hawtin – aka ‘Techno God’ – is the star of tonight’s show, but the DJ before him tears it up as well… although I am shit and can’t remember if it’s Marc Houle, Barem, Ambivalent… or all three! Did anyone else who went know?
Before we start throwing shapes at the start of an epic 6 hour dance-a-thon for myself and
Me and Daniel Formosa
Dan, we hit the other room to check out the music… and Dan finds C-Kay cutting some rug by the entrance! Lots of hugging and wiping of relieved brows later and the gang is back together!
But not for long…
Andy is bounced by the bouncers for having a chat with Mandy, and Leticia goes with him as he can’t get himself back in, which leave Dan, C-Kay and I stood outside, smoking, watching them leave.
“Well, we didn’t get kicked out…” Dan says in his Aussie lint and we head back inside.
The place is bouncing and Richie Hawtin is showing us how it’s done. We dance, and C-Kay tells us he’s going to go and get us some drinks.
We don’t see the Elusive C-Kay for another FOUR HOURS. This time we only briefly search, as he now has previous, and we know he’ll show up.
Dan and I don’t stop dancing until 6am. Well, I don’t. Dan stops intermittently to shove his tongue down some girls throat who’s been hanging off of him since we arrived. The boy is smooth, and his accent seems to win everyone over. The bloody convict.
The lights are about to go up, and Dan ‘C-Kay Finder Extraordinaire’ Formosa finds our mysterious buddy again. We leave, jump in a taxi, hit Leticia and Andy’s flat and spend the next couple of hours talking about C-Kay’s mixes, scouring dance videos on YouTube, and generally getting more spannered.
Alas, soon it’s time for me to leave, and with hugs and handshakes all around, C-Kay and I grab another cab back to Waterloo where we both embrace and say goodbye. It’s been emotional, stressful, brilliant, funny, and more than anything – spectacular. We agree to meet up next year with our new friends… but next year we’ll know what to expect.
But I’m not sure SW4 will be ready for our new Super Group – The SW4 Gang. I’ve already got people on the island saying they want to come following my Facebook statuses and messages.
And to Dan, Andy, Alastair and Leticia – C-Kay and I will see you next year for our yearly meet. I got a feeling it’s gonna be even messier next time around…
Oh, and when my mum picked me up off of the boat (that I narrowly caught after having fallen asleep on the train) she told me off for the fucking state I was in. And then banned me from drinking at my sisters’ forthcoming wedding.
[This weeks' blog sees the start of semi-regular interviews with some of the International MixTrain Collective's DJs, in a bid to spread the word and recruit new and talented DJs. This interview is with the IMTC's founder, Fatter Agnus.]
Hi Fatter. As you know I have been championing the MixTrain Collective for weeks, if not months, now, and the wider world and I would like to know more about you and the Collective. For starters, how did the formation of the MixTrain come about?
I used to play back in the 90’s but was away from the whole scene for more than a decade. I had been mulling over doing something again but didn’t want to go back to a pure-play vinyl/turntable setup. When the Native Instruments Kontrol S4 was released last Autumn I was instantly sold and decided that this was what I wanted to use for mixing. The Kontrol S4 was in short supply all over the US so I spent a lot of time on web site learning about the kit as I waited for mine to arrive. During that time I came across the DJTechTools site which is pretty much the number one DJ technology site out there. I quickly became involved on their user forum and saw guys doing these mix trains – guys from all over agreeing to do, day a psy-trance mix train and each guy recording 10-15 minutes of a mix and sharing that file with the next guy to add on to. I thought about just getting involved on the trains happening there but what I really wanted was to do some stuff with my own circle of friends. I got a lot of good advice from the lads on the DJTechTools boardsabout putting mix trains together so II shot out a message to some friends with on Facebookto see if they would be up for something similar. The response was pretty quick and very positive. Within a couple of hours we had a dozen people spread across a bunch of time zones – all up for putting a drum and bass mix. The first mix took about 6 weeks to complete as it went Cleveland, Ohio, USA – Isle of Wight -London – Isle of Wight – Raleigh, North Carolina, USA – Kuwait City, although I might not have that exactly right!
I love the whole concept of different DJs from all over the world getting together and creating a mix with their own styles. Would you say that starting the mix as the first DJ is hardest, or has the guy at the end got a lot to contend with as an hour mix drops through his email and he has to create something to compliment it? And is it usually in your hands to kick things off?
The DJ that kicks off the train does have a responsibility to ensure that their slot is appropriate and representative of the agreed theme. You certainly don’t want to be working on a Mix Train where the first DJ has decided to drop Balls-to-the-Wall Scandinavian Death Squad Loop Rape Techno – especially when you were expecting some dubstep action. Luckily, we haven’t run into anything like that yet. We don’t ask DJs to audition as most are referred by existing members but if we have someone who finds us through Twitter, Facebook or WordPress, we will ask them for a Soundcloud link or something similar so the existing members of the group can check them out. We actually met DJC-Kay on Twitter and everyone loved what he did on The Drop Train.
As for the being the last DJ, it’s always fun to be able to really go to town on the last slot and really build on the other DJ’s work. Depending on the DJ’s setup, there are more technical considerations the further into the mix you go. For instance, some people play “Suicide Style” where they play and record the incoming mix and start their mix at the end. This is the quickest and most effective way to do it but if you make a mistake you have to start the whole thing again. We have guys using Ableton, Traktor,Serato and a number of other DJ and audio platforms and they all have their own way of doing it.
DJ CK
There are no hard and fast rules about who kicks off a train. I started the very first one and have probably kicked off a couple on top of that but it’s generally the DJ who comes up with an idea for a new train that gets things going. In other cases we just list all the available slots and let people sign up on a first come, first served basis.
I’m a big fan of DJC-Kay as I, too, found him through Twitter. How important are social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter to the MixTrain? And do you interact with any other sites?
There are two sides to the Mix Train. There’s the public side where we post mixes, let people know what’s going on and loom to attract new talent. Then you have the internal side where the mix trains are created and managed and the place where the DJs get together. Most of this could have been done before social networking erupted as internet forums have been around forever. In fact the DJTTguys do everything on their boards . Having said all that, social networking allows you cast your net much farther in terms of working with a broader variety of DJs and attracting a more diverse group of listeners. It’s also amazing how much a seemingly insignificant feature like the ‘add document’ in Facebook Groups has helped. The docs feature enables us to set out mix trains and let users in the group sign up, make edits and swap places with other DJs without everything having to go through Jay Innit , Erick Bruce or myself. Of all the technology we currently use,Dropbox is hands-down my favorite. Dropbox is a service that allows folders to be shared and synchronized across multiple computers via the web. This is what we use to share mix train mixes as they go from one DJ to another.
fan page is a good place if you just want to be notified of new mix trains and get the odd
Oz White
update as we really don’t go crazy on the page with updates as to what we had for dinner. Twitter is becoming more and more important and Mix Train tweets vary from information on new and upcoming mixes to relevant music/technology retweets and often it’s just what happens to be on my mind, which is clearly of interest to everyone on the planet! The WordPress site is my favorite as everything is there, all the mixes, the DJ profile pages and any articlesthat I decide to write. I am trying to get the Mix Train boys to write too as some of them have some great expertise to share. Recently myself and our in-house Alchemist FutureKing were talking about him doing a series of articles about creating mashups. He is doing some really amazing stuff with seemingly not much more than a Commodore 64 and a myopic crow .
Ah, Futureking… I remember him and Jay Innit being the resident DJs in one of the smallest, grimiest clubs ever to have (dis)graced the face of the earth. They were characters now as they were then, if only with a few more grey hairs. Maybe you should get Future King to tell everyone about some of the (mis)adventures they got up to back ‘in the day’. Did you ever used to play clubs, bars, etc?
I played a few different clubs over the years but never reached the level of infamy attained by Messers King and Innit. In fact, I had a few messy nights myself at the particular club in question. What these two guys brought to the crowd was quality music that, like them, didn’t take themselves too seriously. “Serious Ravers” could go and have it next to kids who’d previously only been exposed to top 40 dance fodder. Back then there was also a lot of competition between DJs but these guys never had to play that game – they had a style, a home and a following to beat all followings.A lot of people got their music education at that venue.
Today I continue to be blown away by both of them. I bow to Jay’s ability to take a set in any direction he pleases and Andy’s productions consistently give me the shivers. It was only this afternoon that I realized that I had one of his sets on repeat for 3 hours. So, yes, I played, but not like these two.
Climbing back aboard the MixTrain, I’ll be playing your latest mix on my radio show to tie in with this blog – as well as posting it on the bottom of this page. Tell me a bit more about this mix and also about the DJs involved in it.
IMTC 018 – ‘The Drop’ was originally called “Darker or Harder than the last’. The idea was to start the mix off with more accessible dinner drum and bass and take it downward from there. Oz White kicks things off with BCee & S.P.Y.’s “Is Anybody Out There?”- a liquid pleaser that I fell in love with the second I heard it. The baton gets handed over at the 10 minute mark to North London’s DJC-Kay who stamps his trademark smooth D&B vibe on the mix before an eight time zone jump to the West Coast and into the hands of my beat gridding tutor, Professor Ben (yes, he’s really a professor). The scholar swiftly brings the horror with some fierce jungle that sets the tone for the rest of the mix. Things change
direction again with a stop in Cleveland, Ohio again as yours truly flips the whole thing on
Professor Ben on the left#
its head with “Diary Tribe Volume 1” (Flump Pumper Dub) which has as much place in a drum and bass set as a bucket of minced eels in a KitKat factory. If my slot is the darker, techier part of the mix, NoHero’s is by far the fattest, dropping monsters like Figure and Whiskey Pete’s “Cut Throat” on Heavy Artillery Recordings. As for the last ten minutes? Well, it does exactly what it says on the tin. Jay Innit hits the red button and proceeds to stroll through the carriages, grinning at the punters as the train separates from the the rails, plows across the motorway and sets course for the nearest ravine. Does that sum it up?
Eloquently. The IMTC has only been around briefly, but what are your long term plans and goals for you and your crew?
I started this whole project as a way for like-minded DJs to connect, and that will always be our ethos. Moving forward, I would like to see our little community expand with new players from different parts of the world, bringing different viewpoints and styles. I don’t care if you are fourteen or four hundred and forty four, if you have a sound and can bring it, we want you. We have also seen more chatter in the group around production and I think there are some opportunities for collaboration there.
Future King of the World...?
I also think there is an opportunity here to create a (dare I say it) brand that’s capable of really changing the way electronic music artists rock a crowd. We have lots of solo DJ’s and producers, a few double acts and a handful of awesome outfits but we don’t have a dynamic where the sound comes before everything. Wouldn’t it be incredible if you could be in Sydney, San Diego or Shanklin and be able to go to a Mix Train gig where you didn’t know exactly who was playing but knew your night was going to be utterly explosive? Given the right growth the IMTC has the ability to do this.
A global brand? A banging night? Or both? Here on the island we already have one of the IMTC DJs – Oz White – hosting his briliant drum and bass nights here in Ryde, but I do believe that our local area needs an IMTC night, as does Sydney, San Diego, et al. And I expect tickets.Will you be pressing the IMTC to pursue this kind of venture? Or will the Train remain on the tracks it already steams along for now?
Initially I would like to see an uptake in membership from more diverse parts of the World and that’s something I think we can achieve with the right people involved in the project. To that end, we are actively looking for a few non-DJ’s who can seriously help promote the IMTC and attract more listeners and more players (well networked music bloggers – please get in touch). As for the Global Brand – there’s definitely an opportunity there but like everything else, it comes down to time and money. What is certain is that we will continue to put out solid mixes that people want to listen and dance to. It would be very cool to see an IMTC night on the Island though!
And to see the MixTrain site, discover the full track listing for The Drop (as well as downloading it for FREE), and to play their other mixes or to help promote the Mix Train brand and get involved at the ground floor… click on this link!
I know it’s a little late, but the story needs to be told of the day Darren Hall and I – two big NFL fans – got ourselves up to Wembley in London for the annual NFL game last Halloween. It was one hell of a day…
Now, young Mr Hall has comtemplated writing a blog for a while, and so – one very drunken night as he rolled in at 2am – he wrote a blog about our little adventure and how we ended up at The Plaza Hotel with the 49ers photographer and his entourage… but he felt a lack of drive and confidence to put it ‘out there’.
Shouldn’t have sent it to me then, should he?
This is his story. I shall interject when needs be:
Sunday morning and my head is split with a hangoverenough to make the mother Teresa herself curse the lord’s name in vain.[Darren was best man at a wedding the day before - JR] I shake it off and travel home to pack my green number four jersey (Go Pack Go) for the big trip to London’s Wembley stadium. Even though the Green Bay Packers are not in attendance for the big game, I feel I must represent, like half the crowd present when we eventually arrive. It was a game of spot the team and I successfully identified 30 of 32 mainstream teams with a few odd ones thrown in to stir the pot. I travel north of the Wight isle with my older sister’s boyfriend, Jody, who is a man wiser then he looks [he's young. He'll learn] with great insight into all his surroundings. I feel a friendship blossom with every quip and comment about passing landmarks and passing ladies on our arduous extended train journey to London.
We hit London Waterloo and I take charge of the situation, having had limited experience of inner city travel and probably still filled with the Dutch courage of the night prior, I lead a man of at least
Bobby Moore - nothing to do with NFL, but a hell of a man and a great statue
a decade my senior into the treacheries of London’s underground subway system. This is a grand step up from the simple Island-Line rail system on the Isle of Wight consisting of seven stops down its east coast. We descend the escalators many feet below ground level wowed by the electronic advertisements flogging us west-end musical tickets at a disgraceful price to see pantomime performances of the likes of Dale Winton or Bobby Davro in drag which I quickly avert my eyes from to save myself the embarrassment of evacuating my guts in the confined spaces of London’s underground. As we venture on through odd temperatures for Halloween below the earth’s crust, we encounter several characters across the metropolitan line and northern line including Asian tourists, over-aged, under dressed ‘schoolgirls’ (God bless Halloween) and NFL jerseys in their abundance pumping up for the big game. We travel on past our ultimate destination with less than a half hour before it all kicks off. As we see comrades bound for the same goal as ourselves we bow our heads in disappointment as we travel on to check in to out mediocre hotel and then double back to Wembley Way. After we check in, there is confusion over which the only ordered taxi belongs to, we persuade our way on board as we are apparently the only ones attending the hotels facilities, bar the chap in the reception arm chair stealing free Wi-Fi from its unobservant providers. We pay a pleasant Asian
83,941 people in attendance
chap a generous fee due to loose change in our pockets for our speedy delivery to the colossal arch that is Wembley Stadium. Within minutes we are in our seats and they are pretty good. Top marks to Jody for scoring great seats with no traffic in front of us [for £111, they fucking wanted to be], apart from a disabled gentleman who appears wheelchair bound, until it was time to leave where he was first to spring loose of the ensuing traffic exiting Wembley. There was also the gentleman with arm paralysis who Jody propositioned a high-five only discover the guy ‘can’t move my arm’. I share the embarrassment as I feel it is too much for one mortal to endure. Prior to this ludicrous event were many happenings including a tame first half of American Football consisting of only three points and countless attempts to claim ‘dibs’ on San Francisco cheerleaders as they paraded past [I won, through virtue of being older and 'wiser' *ahem*], pom-poms in hand and choreographed to perfection expressing their jovial manner and pleasant appearance. I’m still convinced that of the 38 dancers present, they were at least one third synthetic material. However we don’t complain, we soldier on and boast about who has the best chance of bagging said treasures. Half time approaches and as we venture into the back rooms for over-priced and over cooked burgers and we miss the games first major event, a touchdown to the Denver Broncos [Tim Tebow 1yd run]. Luckily for us this doesn’t register until we return to our seats and I realised I am situated next to the continent’s tallest man. As I feel like a field mouse next to Goliath, I munch
Darren vs the Tallest Man in Wembley
on my burger and the game finally gets going. This is enough to partially redirect our attention toward actual events on the field that we paid to see, although ultimately we lose the battle and succumb to the cheerleading talents of the San Francisco Gold Rush. (Later recognisance reveals one is a history teacher, surely a paradox as no one could focus on past events when those hooters exist in the present.)
Post game drinking leads the pair of us to the Green Man pub around the corner from the stadium. It is somewhat under populated then I expected it to be but we continue with our consumption of alcohol and participation of America’s game in London whilst it is still here.
As the night draws to a close somewhat earlier than advertised by the powers of Facebook, Jody and I come into contact with none other than an official 49ers photographer who claims he has had free-roam of the event and has snapped in excess of 3000 photographs of today’s feature. We immediately cling to our new best friend in an attempt to continue the nights drinking into the early hours of Monday morning. As luck would have it, twenty minutes later we find ourselves inside the Wembley Plaza Hotel with best mate Roger King (the photo king) after eluding his colleague Bi-Bi, who is somewhat suspicious of Roger’s company, the moustache-clad photo man escorts us onto the premises and it is on. Cue several hours or drinks, bull-shitting about American culture, and a motivational, inspirational talk by a Colorado senior the night draws to a close and Jody and I must travel to north London to return to our rented quarters for the night. Our initial goal of a midday return to the Isle looks in jeopardy as it is half past four in the morrow before our heads touch pillow. The morning comes around in an elderly state and we are awoken by attempts of the cleaning staff to enter our room near on 11 am, albeit at their own risk of the pungent odour of male body, and the risk of deafening due to Jody’s impressive decibel-accumulating snoring. I take the plunge and ask the 1950’s shower to shed my layer of skin belonging to the previous day’s activities in a mixed assault of burns of scolding water and tirades of freezing blasts of water, cleansing my soul and reminding me that everything comes at a price. I awake the beast and we travel Island-bound via Waterloo’s Burger King which neatly fills a whole and sedates the pair of us on the journey home.
Darren getting his life-pep-talk
As piss-poor as I feel returning to the homeland, I cannot help but smile due to the previous 48 hours activities and escapades, which fortunately came at a difficult time for me. It just shows what openness and friendship in combination can do to uplift your spirit if you just let go and get involved. As I return to university the following day I have a few good stories under my belt that recurrent reiteration cannot do justice as it was one of those weekends in which you simply had to be there.
UK, UK, USA, USA
There’s not much else I can add to the above, except…
That the final score was Broncos 16-24 SF 49ers;
The MVP was Troy Smith – the back-up QB for the 49ers;
I must be better-looking than Darren because I got my food and beer cheaper than he did;
I said the words: “If Roger King wants lasagna, Roger King gets lasagna” to the very posh people at the Plaza’s reception… and got lasagna;
Roger King and Darren
US Gary – when asked if he would like a drink – said “Sure, I’ll take a shot!” which in turn led us to hitting different shots and getting very, very wrecked;
…and then we had to try and flag down a taxi at 4am. Well, Darren did while I sat on the curb and tried not to pass out…
In fact, that’s the easiest damn blog I’ve ever written! Must drag Darren around with me more often…
Oh wait, there’s always this years’ trip to Wembley!
